


Missing Moments

by kcthekat



Series: The Sacred 28 Series [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 07:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13608564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcthekat/pseuds/kcthekat
Summary: A trio of one-shots featuring Blaise Zabini, Gabrielle Delacour and some original characters. Written as a gift for QueenOfTheQuill!





	1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is a three-part gift for QueenOfTheQuill! Thank you for all your amazing reviews and responses!

* * *

Paris was magical in the winter, and no place more so than La Magie, the premier district for French wizards and witches.

Walking down the cobblestone streets with a heavy bag on one shoulder and his work apron under the under, Jean Beufort happily weaved his way through the growing crowds on his way to work. Many of his co-workers complained about the swarms of people that flocked to the bustling district during the holidays, but Jean liked it. He enjoyed seeing people happy and busy.

At last, Jean came to the café and coffee stand he'd been looking for. Hopping up the curb, Jean entered through the café and then crossed over through a small alcove, where he ducked into an exterior square that served drinks directly to the street. Dumping his bag on the table, Jean first picked up a cup to make himself a hot coffee. It was freezing out, and he rubbed his gloved hands together for warmth while his coffee brewed in the magical pot. He still had about fifteen minutes before his shift started, so he considered picking up one of his books while he waited. Then he spotted one of his younger co-workers, Amelie, sitting on the only bare table in their cramped space. She looked miserable.

"What's the matter?" he asked, picking up his coffee. Amelie looked up.

"Oh hey," she said. "I didn't realize you were working today." She wiped away some tears from the corner of her eye. "It's nothing, really," she muttered. "Just had some jerk customer this morning."

"Oh, Amelie, don't let customers get you upset," Jean said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "Those sorts of people aren't worth your time."

Amelie groaned. "I know, but this guy keeps coming back! He's been here every day for the last two weeks, and every single time, he says the most horrible things to the baristas. Like yesterday, he told Julie she would be better off digging ditches than making coffee." Amelie leaned forward, hands gripping the table, "and then today he asked me if my parents were brother and sister, because he couldn't fathom any other reason why I would be so incompetent."

Jean raised both brows. "Wow, what an asshole."

"I know!" said Amelie. "He's a total – argh, you've got to be kidding me! He's here AGAIN! Merlin's beard, he was already here once today!" Together, she and Jean peeked out of the tiny window of their coffee hut. "There he is. That tall fellow right there." She shot Jean a dour look. "He's  _English_."

"Well, that explains it," said Jean with a smirk. His eyes finally landed on the wizard Amelia had pointed to, and Jean bit his lip. Amelie looked over at him and huffed.

"Jean, don't you dare say that boy is cute."

Jean tried not to grin. "He's not cute. He's damn gorgeous." And so he was. The wizard in question was tall and slim with very dark skin, light hazel eyes and strikingly elegant features. On the street, he stood next to an equally beautiful witch, one who matched his skin tone and dashing good looks. They also shared a dangerous air about them, and even amongst the crowds, they certainly stood out.

"But," said Jean, straightening, "being good-looking is no excuse for being an ass." When the English pair approached, Jean picked up his apron. "Let me handle this one."

"Are you sure?" asked Amelie, even though she looked relieved. "You're not even on the clock yet."

"I've got it," Jean promised her with a smile. He waited at the window, and when the pair approached, looking haughty and imposing, Jean leaned on the window counter with an easy smile. "Can I help you?" he asked. He kept to French. Let the Englishman try his hand at it.

The wizard looked to Jean's face, and for just a moment, his eyes flickered as if he were inspecting him. Then he responded in stoic French, "A Grande non-fat sugar-free, two pumps Vanilla, four shots latte – hot. And a Venti soy three pump Cinnamon Dulce latte, no foam, extra whip, extra hot."

Jean listened to the order without moving. When the young wizard was finished, he narrowed his eyes on Jean. "Aren't you going to write that down?" he asked.

"No," said Jean cheerfully. Then he retreated from the window without another word. A few minutes later, he returned to the window with two steaming drinks and placed them on the counter. "Two Galleons, three sickles."

The Englishman shifted his eyes mistrustfully over Jean, taking the drinks and handing one over to the witch before he took a sip of his own. Jean watched. As expected, the wizard needed only one taste to know his order was perfect. He looked up at Jean and lifted his chin.

"Well," said the other wizard with reluctant approval, "would you look at that. Someone in this hovel can actually make a decent drink." He pulled out his gold and deposited it in the bucket. "You should train some of your lackluster co-workers. They could use a lesson or two."

Jean leaned on the counter again. "I don't think that's necessary," he told the wizard in English. "After all, they would probably do a lot better job with your order if your French weren't so terrible."

The Englishman's eyes widened and then he scowled. Smirking, Jean straightened from the window again. "Have a good day," he told the young wizard. Then he shut the window in his face while Amelie cheered and jumped up and down in her spot.

Laughing to himself, Jean finally clocked in and gave Amelie some relief. When it came time for his break some hours later, he picked up his heavy bag of books, dropped his apron on a hook near the door and then stepped out of the closet-sized coffee alcove to cross the street to the deli. There, he bought himself a sandwich and sat down at a table. After taking a few bites of his food, he pulled out a heavy textbook and began reading, occasionally making notes with a quill. About fifteen minutes into his break, he looked up and saw the haughty Englishman sitting nearby.

This time he was alone, and although it looked like he had been there for a while, he was now watching Jean as if he'd been waiting for him. Jean glanced around, still chewing on his sandwich, but there seemed to be no reason for the English wizard to be staring. He went back to his studying, lips quirked.

The Englishman looked very annoyed. Now that he had recovered from his shock, it seemed his plan was to eviscerate Jean with a stone-cold glare that was unwavering in its intensity. It was an impressive glare, Jean had to give him that. However, Jean was not easily disturbed, and he read on without looking up again.

After a while, Jean finished his meal and left without addressing the Englishman.

* * *

Two days later, Jean came into work and had only been there about ten minutes when the dark-skinned English wizard arrived again. He came up to the window alone, ordered his drink, and stood in straight-faced silence while Julie made it nervously. Jean watched from behind the window, where he could not be seen.

"Here you go, sir," said Julie, cautiously sliding the drink to the young wizard.

He accepted it, and without taking a drink to test it, he dropped three Galleons into the cup, even though the drink cost less than that. Then he left and crossed the street to the same deli as before, where he took a seat and said nothing to anyone.

Jean peeked out of the window and laughed. "Looks like someone learned to hold hi tongue," he mused, and Julie let out a breath of relief.

"Thank goodness. He was awful."

"Mm, looks like just another spoiled brat to me," noted Jean. After a few minutes of watching, Jean pulled back from the window. "Hey, I know it's early, but do you mind if I go ahead and take my break? I'm starving."

"Go ahead," said Julie, taking a seat since there were no customers. She flipped through a copy of  _Witch Weekly_. Jean picked up his bag of books and a cup filled with coffee. After that, he left the coffee shop and went across the street, taking a seat at a table right next to the Englishman and his steely glare. Flipping open a book, Jean reclined comfortably in his seat and began reading about cardiovascular disease.

He could feel the Englishman looking over. At last, the other wizard said in dry English, "What does a barista need to know about cardiovascular disease for? Afraid one of your overpriced drinks might actually kill someone?"

Jean glanced up before looking back at his book, lips quirked. "I'm in Healers School." He turned a page. "And for your information, you're the one who buys those overpriced drinks. Just in case you forgot."

The Englishman bristled. "Only for lack of better option. I thought Paris was supposed to be renowned for its food and drink. So far, everything has been supremely subpar."

"Again," said Jean, marking something on a page, "that's probably your terrible language skills."

The other wizard scowled. "A Healer, you say? Well, I certainly hope your bedside manner is an improvement over your customer service skills. I would loathe to be one of your patients."

"With an attitude like yours," said Jean, "I'm surprised you're not someone's patient at this very moment, waiting for them to fix your broken jaw."

The Englishman's mouth tightened grimly. "Perhaps the reason I'm not is because anyone who knows me would never dare attempt such a foolish thing." He paused before adding, "And your country leaves much to be desired, by the way."

Jean let his quill fall against his book. "So then what are you doing here, if you find France so – " he rolled his eyes dramatically here, and the other wizard's annoyance visibly increased " –  _undesirable_."

The other wizard paused, and Jean thought he might not answer. Then he said, "I'm visiting my sister. She lives here, unfortunately." This was interesting to Jean.

"Was she the witch who was with you a few days ago?"

"Yes."

"Ah," said Jean. "I figured she was your equally unfriendly girlfriend."

"Hardly," said the other wizard. Silence fell for a few moments, before he went on casually, "I suppose one of those simpleton baristas you work with is your girlfriend? Since you were so offended that I hurt their feelings?"

Jean waved his quill. "No, actually I only cared so much because they are humans who were doing you a service, not your personal punching bags." He looked back at his book. "And I don't date women."

It was hard to figure out the other wizard's facial expression. For a moment, the stoic wizard looked confused. Then it was gone, and his face was blank. After a few minutes, the Englishman stood abruptly and left, looking to Jean briefly and saying, "Enjoy your reading," before he departed into the crowd and vanished.

Jean watched him go, brows furrowed.  _Weird fellow_ , he thought, before returning to his studies.

* * *

From that day forward, the Englishman wizard came to the coffee shop at least once a day. He would order his complicated drinks, receive them without complaint, and then deposit his gold in the bowl with a little extra on top. Jean sometimes took his order, and other times he did not. When Jean did, however, he noticed that the young wizard always took his drink across the street and sat at the deli, just barely in view of Jean's window.

The third time this happened, Jean took his break as soon as the other wizard sat down, gathered his books and found a table next to the Englishman.

"Does the concept of a 'break' escape you?" asked the English wizard after a moment.

Jean looked over at him, shrugging one shoulder. "I have to work full-time to pay for my schooling," he explained. "If I can pass my exams next May, I'll move on to become an Apprentice Healer. Then I can actually start working in hospitals." The books made an ominous thud against the table. "Until then, I have to study whenever I get the chance."

Frowning at his textbook, Jean dropped back his head and groaned at the sky, which was gray and cloudy.

"Aw," said the English wizard. "What's the matter? Big bad book getting the better of you?"

"Shut up," said Jean crossly, noting the Englishman's dark amusement as he did so. "Everyone else I go to class with gets to study together in groups. I have to figure all this out on my own." He let a closed fist fall dully on the top of his textbook. "And my exams aren't just question and answer. They're hypothetical questions posed as real-life situations. It's hard to make those up on my own for the purposes of studying."

The Englishman seemed to think about this. Then, to Jean's surprise, he stood up and crossed over to Jean's table. "Well, as it so happens, conjuring violent hypothetical situations is within my skillset." He folded his hands in front of him on Jean's table. Merlin, he was even better looking up close, Jean noted with irritation.

"Why does that not surprise me?" asked Jean rhetorically.

The Englishman pulled over Jean's book and observed the marginal notes in the chapter. He only needed to scan it for around thirty seconds before he seemed to feel he was ready to test Jean. Jean, on the other hand, was quite skeptical, but he waited patiently for the other wizard to speak.

"So," said the other wizard, "let's say that some foolish vagabond owes my family a great deal of gold, but he refuses to pay, so I break both of his legs."

Jean raised a brow. "Are you – are you a mobster?"

The other wizard ignored his question. "And after I break his legs, I bring him to your doorstep. What is your first course of action?"

Jean settled back in his chair. "Well, that's easy. I use  _Brackium Emendo_."

"Ah," said the other wizard, "but what if the poor bloke – in all his horrendous but well-deserved suffering – attempted to mend his broken bones himself, and as such, now has multiple oblique fractures?"

Jean hesitated. Despite himself, he smiled a little at the challenge. "Well, in that case,  _Brackium Emendo_  might do more harm than good. So I could use…" he thought about it. "A combination of Skelegro and a Splint Spell. So long as the bone hasn't pierced the skin, that is."

"In which case you would use…?"

Jean thought about it again. "Benito Potion, to protect against infection."

The other wizard glanced at the textbook. "The dosage of which is dictated by the patient's…?"

"Age," said Jean.

"But what if he can't tell you his age?" asked the Englishman. "After all, he is writhing in pain, perhaps even unconscious. You can't just cut him in half and count the rings on the inside. What do you do?"

Jean put his chin in his hands, thinking hard. After several seconds of silence, he said excitedly, "A Mendley's Potion mixed with a skin sample should tell me! Or, if I was pressed for time, I could err on the side of safety and go for an average adult dosage."

The Englishman closed the book with a smirk. "Well, well. Look at that. You saved that poor bastard's legs."

Jean smiled broadly. "That was helpful," he admitted. "Thank you."

Predictably, the other wizard dismissed his gratitude with an indifferent shrug. However, Jean spotted a hint of warmth in his hazel eyes. "You should probably return to your hapless co-workers," said the other wizard. "Lest they catch the building on fire without you there to corral them."

Rolling his eyes but keeping his smile, Jean took back his book. "Will you be here tomorrow?"

"Perhaps," was the other wizard's coy response.

Laughing, Jean picked up his things and returned to work.

* * *

Over the next week, the English wizard – who, for whatever reason, never revealed his name – came back each day and posed creative (and sometimes disturbing) medical situations to Jean, allowing him to puzzle through them and then make proposals.

Two days before Christmas, the other wizard finished his outlandish hypothetical situation (this fictional fellow had been buried alive and dropped in a lake) before pushing the book back at Jean and folding his hands in his lap.

"I won't be here tomorrow," he told Jean. "And I'm returning to England after that."

Jean found himself disappointed, much to his surprise. "Oh, well. Thank you for your help. I hope you enjoy your holiday with your family." He leaned back in his chair. "Are you returning to a job or…?"

"Not exactly," said the other wizard. Jean stared for a moment before he leaned forward on his elbows.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Are you still in school? How old are you?"

The other wizard hesitated. "Seventeen."

"Liar," said Jean, grinning. "I haven't seen you do a hint of magic since you got here. You're not of age."

The Englishman scowled. "Fine, I'll be seventeen in four months."

Jean laughed. "Well then," he said coyly, eyeing the handsome young wizard, "that is good to know." To Jean's surprise, the younger wizard flushed a little under his dark skin.

After a moment of silence, Jean reluctantly gathered his things. "Thank you again," he told him. "I should get back to work, though."

"Need to earn a lot of gold?" asked the other wizard.

Jean nodded. "Tuition for the Healer's school is two hundred Galleons a term, and I have to pay it at the start of the year." He smiled easily. "I'll make it, though. I always do."

Flashing his eyes over the dashing Englishman one last time, Jean nodded to him. "Enjoy your Christmas," he said lightly, and the Englishman's lips lifted at a hint of a real smile. Jean found the softened version of his severe features very difficult to look away from.

* * *

The very next day, Jean returned to work under a heavy snowfall. As he ducked into the coffee alcove where he worked, Amelie looked up at him with wide eyes. "Jean, you won't believe it," she said, holding out the bowl where their gold went during each shift. "Look at this!"

"What is it?" he asked, before peering in and making a startled noise. The bowl was full of Galleons. "What in the hell?" he said, fishing his fingers through it. That was when he spotted a note at the bottom, buried beneath the gold coins. He pulled it out.

 _For your tuition,_ read the note.

Jean stared in disbelief before he smiled, very much against his own will. "Damn it," he said, chuckling and shaking his head. He needed to return this! He couldn't accept that wizard's gold. Jean waited all day to see if the Englishman would return, but he didn't. True to his word, he was gone from the streets of La Magie.

Jean put the gold in a jar and kept it in his small apartment, but he had no intention of using it for tuition. He couldn't accept this. So what else was he going to do with it? However, he did find that he liked looking at it, so he placed the jar near his bed, and whenever he grew exhausted with work and school, he would look over at it and remember the strange Englishman who had left such an impression on him in such a short period of time.

* * *

_Six Months Later_

Thunder rolled across the sky, and rain poured in a seemingly never-ending torrent, causing the streets of La Magie to look more like a roiling river than a cobblestone path.

Despite this, Blaise Zabini strolled the streets quite casually, with a large black umbrella in one hand and a damp cloak slung over his shoulders. Turning to find the street he was looking for, Blaise walked until he came at last to a set of tall windows and a small square hut with a window. However, the window was closed, and it appeared the café was as well. Blaise observed this with a disappointed grimace.

That was when he looked through one of the café windows and spotted a small cluster of people inside, not customers, but workers, all gathered around a strikingly handsome Asian wizard who was smiling and hugging them all. The other co-workers were patting his arm and cheering for him, and the bashful wizard ducked his head against the praise. Then he shook the hand the elderly café owner and handed over his apron, which the old wizard accepted with a teary nod.

Blaise felt the tight muscles of his mouth relax into a close-lipped smile.

Just then, the Asian wizard looked over and spotted Blaise watching from the street, ankle-deep in rainwater and quite alone. The two met gazes, and Blaise's rare smile grew, even though he tried to quell it. A few of the others in the shop looked at Blaise as well, and some of them laughed at their friend's awe-struck expression.

Blaise thought the other wizard might simply wave or nod to him in acknowledgement. Instead, he finished saying good-bye to his co-workers, grabbed his cloak and wand, exited the café alone and jogged right up to Blaise so he could duck under the protection of Blaise's umbrella.

He was beaming, a truly joyous expression that made his dark eyes twinkle.

"Congratulations," said Blaise.

The other wizard's grin grew. "Thank you," he replied. Then he reached forward and tugged Blaise by the back of his neck until their lips met, capturing Blaise's robes in the same moment and holding him close. Blaise's eyes widened in surprise, but that quickly melted away under the kiss, and he stepped closer into the deepening embrace.

After a moment, the other wizard pulled away only an inch. "My name is Jean, by the way," he said, laughing.

Blaise rolled his eyes and tightened his fingers in the front of the French wizard's robes. "Blaise Zabini," he murmured, before yanking Jean back to him. Their lips crashed together again, heat pouring between them as the kiss grew deeper, more feverish.

The thunder rolled on, and the rain continued to pour around them, but they kissed on and on, paying the world around them no mind at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The initial meeting was conducted in a lovely garden, with other well-to-do witches and wizards milling about, pretending to mind their own business as they prepared their minds to harbor as much potential gossip as possible.

Blaise Zabini, the foremost authority on gossip, sat in a white iron chair next to a matching garden table, his long legs elegantly crossed at the knee and his dark brown eyes looking thoughtfully over the colorful array of red, orange and purple blossoms that surrounded the area.

Magical gardens were quite an extraordinary thing, even in the dead of winter. The magically sealed environment was bursting with Spring, even as it snowed quite steadily outside the invisible barrier. This gave the aristocratic witches and wizards inside an extra air of arrogance, as they enjoyed their triumph over nature once more.

"Blaise."

The young wizard closed his eyes momentarily before reopening them, a haughty look set on his features as he twisted in his chair and rose in one fluid motion to face the beautiful dark-skinned witch in front of him. The woman was not smiling, but then again, she rarely was.

"Mother," Blaise greeted. Two of Blaise's older sisters, both of whom had married in the last year and gained a supernatural sense of superiority because of it, flanked his mother. Isabella, Blaise's favorite, was still single and therefore not invited to join them, nor was the eldest sister, who was the unseemliest of the four girls and was therefore their mother's least favorite.

"Now," said Blaise's mother, moving slowly around him with her deeply critical stare, "Remember. Your grandfather is greatly desirous of this marriage. You are to impress." She paused in front of him, and even though the witch stood at least half a foot shorter than Blaise, he felt a bit cowed, as he always did with her.

"And if you fail," his mother said in a voice bereft of any warmth or affection, "your family fortune will be completely lost to you. And by extension, to us." She leaned very close, eyes flashing. "Do … you … understand?"

Blaise could have easily mentioned, in that moment, that the entire reason his grandfather was so adamant about Blaise's marriage to this girl was because his mother had caused so many scandals with her various "marriages," and no one took the Zabinis to be serious spousal candidates anymore. However, Blaise knew that he was a catch for any witch, as the only male heir of a very wealthy family, so he wasn't that worried about being successful.

After all, very few people knew of Blaise's  _true_  affections, and even if they did, it wasn't the sort of thing that was discussed. Besides, Blaise had heard all about this girl he was set to wed. Young – barely of age – and the second daughter of an old and distinguished French family, though it was not so prestigious as it had once been, from what he understood.

Surely Blaise was her best prospect. As a result, he was not at all concerned about fooling this girl into falling desperately head over heels for him, as he had often done with witches in the past. Witches often proved far easier to manipulate than wizards, in Blaise's opinion, and that made them more valuable.

Whatever the case, Blaise needed a decent wife and a public marriage, and his mother needed him to secure the family fortune.

"This is important," his mother hissed at him for the thousandth time as the attendants called out that 'the girl' was here. "Your grandfather said if we don't please him with this arrangement, he will take all of our inheritance and – " she grimaced " – give it to an  _orphanage_."

Blaise put a hand over his chest, appalled.

Just then, Blaise's mother shifted and greeted a pair of elderly French couple, who quickly and excitedly introduced themselves as Jacque and Appoline Delacour.

"Welcome," said Blaise's mother, even cracking a smile.

 _Hm_ , thought Blaise. She was certainly on her best behavior. Pity she couldn't have managed such decorum at virtually any other point in the last twenty years. Shifting to face the couple, Blaise bowed and took the elderly witch's hand, kissing it before greeting them smoothly in French.

"Oh, excellent, good sir!" said Monsieur Delacour. "Most excellent!"

Blaise smirked.  _Swish and a flick_ , he thought smugly.

"Please, Monsieur Zabini," said Jacque, "allow me to introduce our youngest daughter, Gabrielle."

From behind the pair stepped a young witch with silver-blonde hair and a flash of brilliant blue eyes. Her pink lips were quirked in a smile, and she had on a lovely set of powder blue robes. She certainly was beautiful, thought Blaise. Stunning, even. Her posture was very demure, and Blaise smirked. This would be even easier than charming her parents.

A shame, thought Blaise. He had been looking forward to a challenge. After all, if he had to go through all this ridiculous nonsense – not to mention upsetting Jean – it may as well be fun. But this girl looked like a doll, sweet round face and all, and Blaise knew she would be easy enough to manipulate.

Stepping forward, Blaise took Gabrielle's hand as he had done for her mother and kissed it, greeting her in French as well. This made Gabrielle truly smile, and she returned the greeting in kind.

"I am very glad to meet you, Mister Zabini," she said in rather heavier French accent than Blaise had expected. Jean's accent was quite different, but then, he was from a far different part of France.

"I feel very much the same," said Blaise with a charming smile. "And relieved, too, for I see you are even more beautiful than I'd been told." He looked to her parents. "And the praise was  _very_  high, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Both parents beamed and fawned over Gabrielle for a few minutes, talking lightly with Blaise's mother, though that was sure to end quickly one they realized how limited her capacity for pleasantries truly was. Unable to bear the conversation a moment longer, Blaise offered his arm to Gabrielle.

"Shall we take a walk, Miss Delacour? I do believe we should get to know each other."

"Of course," agreed Gabrielle, pausing to curtsy to her parents ( _Eugh,_ thought Blaise). Together, the pair left the adults and wandered through the garden, where plush green grass continued to surprise in the dead of winter. A few pixies fluttered throughout the gardens, stinging people when they weren't paying attention, and other little creatures popped in and out of shrubberies.

"My family is one of the benefactors of this garden," Blaise told Gabrielle, looking over at her as she walked at his side. "We've been helping fund it for generations."

"Oh, really?" asked Gabrielle. "Is zer a history of herbology in your family?"

Blaise made a small amused noise. "Not at all. We just happen to enjoy things of beauty." Gesturing around him, he continued, "If there is an aesthetic to be had – and if it's worth anything – the Zabinis are a part of it, in some way or the other."

"Zat is good to know," said Gabrielle, smiling up at the flowers. "I also enjoy beautiful zings. Which reminds me," she said, before flashing him a quick mischievous smile. "Ginny Weasley was quite right about you. You are certainly handsome."

At this, Blaise gave a delighted chuckle. "Weasley said that, did she? Oh, I'll definitely have to bring that up to Draco next time I see him." This made Gabrielle giggle, and Blaise felt fully satisfied in his attempts to charm her. They talked for about ten more minutes, mostly Blaise espousing the virtues of the garden over any other similar attempts in England.

Gabrielle said little, but she listened attentively and watched his face often, something he took as a very good sign. What a dim little twit, thought Blaise, so distracted by his good looks and her simple head that she couldn't even contribute to a conversation.  _Ah, well._

The pair came to a tree, and after gazing up at it for a moment, Gabrielle suggested they sit at another small garden table, this one littered with soft pink blossoms from the branches above. Gabrielle took a seat and observed a petal in her fingertips, elbows on the table as she turned it in front of her face. As soon as Blaise took a seat, Gabrielle lowered her arms and raised both brows at him, her lips quirked.

"So," she said quite suddenly, startling Blaise a little, "Mister Zabini… Now zat we are alone, what is it you would like to tell me?"

Blaise blinked, uncertain he'd heard her correctly. "I'm sorry, what?"

To his great surprise, Gabrielle smiled in a very different manner than before. "May I call you Blaise?"

"Of course," he said, eyeing her.

"Blaise," said Gabrielle, in something of a knowing voice that caught his attention, "whatever it is zat you are not telling me before, now would be a good time."

Blaise raised a dark brow. "I haven't any idea what you're talking about."

"Really?" asked Gabrielle, smiling again, "Because… Men - zey have been watching me since I was eleven years old. I know when zey are looking at me because zey want me." She flipped some hair off her shoulder. "After all, I am part Veela. I can feel zeir desire for me. I always have."

She turned a petal in her fingertips and said slyly, "But you do not look at me like zat. You look at me like you look at zis flower." She held up the fallen blossom from the table, turning it in her hands. "So, tell me, Blaise… Is zere somezing you would like to say?"

Blaise stared, utterly flabbergasted. Perturbed – and a little irritated – Blaise shifted in his chair, clearing his throat as he crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. Well, she certainly thought she had him all figured out, didn't she? Well, let her be shocked.

"I have a boyfriend," said Blaise bluntly. "And I have no interest in marrying a woman."

"Ahhh," said Gabrielle, leaning back with a laugh. "Zat is what I zought." To Blaise's great bewilderment, the girl didn't seem either surprised or bothered. In fact, as Blaise watched, Gabrielle leaned on the table and propped her chin up in one finely manicured hand, still smiling.

"Tell me about him!"

Blaise watched her as one might a wild animal as it stalked them. "I – Well," he said, shifting again and looking around, perplexed on how to continue. "His name is Jean," he finished at last, sounding quite snide, even though he had no reason to. Gabrielle's face lit up.

"He is French?"

"Yes."

"How wonderful!" exclaimed Gabrielle. "Do you zink I would know him from school?"

Blaise raised a brow, before pausing to entertain her question. "Well, no, I doubt it. He would be – oh, about five or six years older than you."

"I see. Well, I would love to meet him sometime," said the girl, and Blaise frowned, because she seemed to mean it, and he wasn't sure what was going on anymore, but he had the distinct impression that he was no longer in control of the conversation – if he ever had been at all. Eugh. That made him feel even worse.

"So tell me," said Gabrielle, before Blaise could speak up, "why are you entering into zis arrangement wiz me if you do not want to marry a woman?"

Blaise hesitated, glancing up to make sure that other garden patrons were far away.  _To hell with it_ , he decided at last. This girl was determined. Perhaps Blaise's legendary candor would alarm her into running away, and he could go and find someone who was truly stupid, as he'd wanted.

"Because," Blaise said, an icy edge to his voice even as he fought to clear it, "my grandfather is refusing to allow me even a sickle's worth of inheritance unless I marry."

"Oh, I see," said Gabrielle, frowning. "I understand zis. My grandfazzer is much ze same. All of zis was his idea, and I would hate to refuse him. He is very strict."

Blaise sighed. "Yes, well – " He cleared his throat. "I suppose you realize then that this is something I must do, and therefore, I am resigned to it. So, there." He paused. "I must marry someone, and that someone is certainly not going to be Jean."

The silver-haired girl fell quiet, looking deeply thoughtful. "Is Jean upset about zis?"

Blaise's brows furrowed. "I don't know," he said flatly, even though he knew very well that Jean was quite distraught. He didn't come from a family like Blaise's, and he didn't understand the pressure of aristocrats. To Jean, it would have been perfectly acceptable to remain legally single, so long as they could stay together. But Blaise had never even considered such a thing, because he knew it simply wasn't going to happen like that.

As Blaise was thinking on this, Gabrielle was also lost in thought. After several seconds of silence between them, Gabrielle leaned on the table again, her pretty hair falling next to her face.

"So," she said, startling Blaise again. "if we were to proceed with zis marriage – as boz of our families so desire – zen I want you to answer one question for me."

Blaise looked up at her, brows furrowed. But then he gestured for her to continue, and she did.

"If we marry," said Gabrielle, folding her fingers on the table, "… will you be able to give me children?"

Blaise stared, silent for the first time in recent history.

"Because," went on Gabrielle, "I really, really want children! Like, lots of zem. And obviously, our children would be absolutely gorgeous, ze  _most_  beautiful in all ze world. I zink we can agree on that, no? But I know you may not want to, so I can understand if you say no."

Blaise finally laughed a little, stunned as he observed Gabrielle as if seeing her in a new light. "I think I can manage that, yes."

"Are you sure?" asked Gabrielle, looking concerned. "Because I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"No, no," Blaise sat up straighter, studying Gabrielle carefully now. His lips quirked a little. "I can… definitely perform with a witch, if that's what you're worried about."

"Really?" squealed Gabrielle. "Because I want to be a mozer so much! Zat would make me so happy!"

Blaise tilted his head at her, both perplexed and amused. "Wait, so are you saying you wouldn't mind if I weren't a … real husband to you, in the conventional sense?" He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Because I'm not leaving Jean."

Gabrielle waved a hand. "Oh, no. All I truly want is to live in a grand mansion and wear ze most beautiful clothes."

She then nodded quite confidently, and Blaise was genuinely impressed by her self-awareness. After a moment in which he drummed his fingers on the table, Blaise looked back up at the young witch.

"Well, you certainly know more than you let on, don't you?"

Smirking, Gabrielle placed her chin on her folded fingers. Her eyes twinkled. "So, Mister Zabini? What do you say? Would you still like to get married?"

Glancing off into the distance with an amused expression, Blaise looked back to the girl he had quite underestimated.

"Yes, I think I would, Miss Delacour."

"Good," she said, popping up from her chair and offering her hand to Blaise, which as pale as his was dark. Blaise accepted, and together they rejoined their parents in the garden.

"Plan a wedding!" declared Blaise as soon as they rejoined the group. Then he slipped an arm around Gabrielle, who beamed. "Because this is going to be my new… wife."

Cheers all around, and preparations began in that instant. The adults bustled off in a group, but Blaise and Gabrielle simply looked at one another and smirked.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Aaaand the last one!

* * *

 

It was beautiful day, brilliantly bright and sunny, with crisp air that still carried the wintery tingle of Christmas, even though it was nearly February.

However, Jean Beufort was quite unhappy.

His boyfriend Blaise looked over at him and rolled his eyes. "For the love of Merlin, would you quit sulking?" He observed himself in a tall elegant mirror and adjusted his dress robes.

"How can I not be miserable?" asked Jean, uncharacteristically bitter. "You're getting married today."

Blaise looked over at him and sighed. Crossing the room, he adjusted a fold in Jean's dress robes. "We've talked about this, Jean. You've always known I would have to marry."

"But," said Jean, features crumbling. "But… why now? You're still so young."

"Have you not been listening to me for the last year?" asked Blaise, looking annoyed. "Inheritance, Jean, all of which depends on my grandfather. Not to mention my maniac mother, who is constantly breathing down my neck to take a bloody wife."

He dropped his hands from Jean's robes and said more gently, "Besides, I told you. You will like this girl."

"Like her?" repeated Jean incredulously. "How can I like her? She's marrying my boyfriend!"

"I already told her about you, Jean," Blaise said with an impatient scowl. "It's not as if you're going to be a bloody secret! She knows what this is all about."

"Does she plan to have children with you?" asked Jean, and Blaise hesitated. Envious fury filled Jean's heart.

"I told her I would, yes," admitted Blaise stoically. "That is her right as a wife, after all."

Jean responded with a mocking laugh. "Right."

"If I had known you were going to be this bloody cross, I would have just told you to stay home," Blaise said with a sigh. He looked over himself in the mirror again.

"Because that would have made it better," said Jean darkly, glaring at a non-descript corner in the room.

Blaise turned back to him, and after inspecting Jean for a moment, he took his arm and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "Jean, stop. I can't help it that this has to happen. What're you going to do, be angry with me for the rest of our days? Or just leave me?"

Jean pursed his lips, but he accepted Blaise's kiss and squeezed the other wizard's arm. "No, I am not going to leave you," he murmured with a touch more animosity than necessary. "Although I don't relish the idea of being your 'other' person."

"You won't be," Blaise promised him. "Really, this girl is very aware of the situation. Just give her a bloody chance and stop acting like a temperamental child." He gave Jean a little push towards the door. "Now go. I have to go find my mother and make sure that _my_ wedding meets _her_ approval."

Sighing, Jean left the dressing room and wandered the elegant halls of the venue. It was still early, and there were many servants and workers milling around, but only a few guests. The staff alone was enormous in number, though, and many passed Jean as he walked aimlessly. Finally, he decided he needed a drink, and he found his way to the grand kitchens. Workers bustled around the kitchen, preparing for the massive banquet that was to come.

Jean ducked in and found a bottle of champagne. Completely uncaring of who caught him, Jean opened the bottle and filled a glass all the way to the top. Then he took the entire bottle of champagne, along with his filled glass, and he took a seat on some steps near the back of the kitchens.

He had only been there a few minutes when he heard sniffles.

Curious, Jean shifted until he could see around the corner of the hallway. There, he saw a pretty girl wearing a simple white dressing gown, sitting on the floor. She had her knees pulled up to her chest, and she was crying quietly. The girl was young, though possibly of age. She looked quite miserable and afraid.

Jean considered keeping to himself, but watching someone suffer alone without at least trying to help simply was not in his nature, no matter how bad he felt. Getting up, Jean moved over cautiously to the girl. "Are you alright?" he asked gently.

The girl looked up, her eyes rimmed with red and her cheeks wet. "Oh," she said, wiping at her face. "I'm – I'm alright." She looked down at her knees again, trembling.

Jean pointed. "Mind if I take a seat?"

The girl seemed embarrassed, but she nodded and let him recline against the wall next to her. Jean swallowed the rest of his drink before refilling it and handing it to her with a soft smile. "It might make you feel a little better," he told her in a teasing whisper.

The girl's features brightened a little, and she took the drink and sipped it in silence. By the time she had finished half the glass, her tears had dried. "Z'ank you," she murmured. "I'm sorry you have to see me so … so out of sorts." She shook her head. "My father says it is unbecoming for a young lady to cry. It says it is childish."

Jean drank straight from the champagne bottle. "Well, I don't want to say your father is wrong," he said, before looking over at her with a smile, "but he is. There's nothing wrong with crying."

"Really?" asked the young witch, eyes wide.

"Really," Jean told her. He paused, before shifting in her direction. "Let me give you an example. So, when I was in school, I played as a Chaser on my Quidditch team. And one day during practice, I saw the most beautiful bird flying right in front of me. It was a stunning blue color with beautiful white tips on its wings, and for a moment, I stopped flying just to look at it and appreciate its beauty." He paused and winced. "Unfortunately, a Bludger came racing by at that moment and WHAM! Killed the bird three inches in front of my face. I was devastated."

The witch gasped. "Oh, no! So you cried because you were sad for the bird?"

"No," said Jean wryly, "actually, I cried because that same Bludger came back while I wasn't paying attention and knocked me off my broom. Broke my arm in three places." 

The witch barely stifled a shocked snicker, and Jean grinned. "It's okay," he told her. "You can laugh." The witch dropped her hand and did just that, giggling like mad. "You see," said Jean more gently, "there's nothing wrong with being sad. The danger comes when you let it distract you from what's going on around you."

The young witch's bright blue eyes widened once more, and this time, she smiled fully. The expression lifted Jean's heart.

"Z'ank you," she said, the two simple words so delightfully earnest and sincere. She put her hand over Jean's and squeezed it. He returned the squeeze, gripping her soft fingers affectionately.

"And you are very right," said the young witch, breathing in deeply and pressing back her shoulders. "It would be a shame for me to let my nerves get the better of me today. I should be happy and grateful." She looked to Jean. "After all, today is my wedding today!"

Jean's heart stopped.

The young witch leaned over and kissed Jean's cheek. "Zank you again. You have made all ze difference in ze world for me." She touched his cheek with a soft fragrant hand. "I hope I see you again." With that, she got up and hurried down the hall where she disappeared into a dressing room.

Jean watched her go. Then, without a word to anyone, he got up from his spot and carried the bottle of champagne with him back to his seat, where he continued to drink it straight from the top.

The ceremony began and ended. The new couple danced together. Within an hour and a half, Blaise had taken his new wife away from the massive crowd and into the small hall he had commandeered for their own private celebration.

Jean was waiting there for them when they arrived. No one else had come yet.

As soon as Blaise and Gabrielle entered, Jean looked up from the table where he stood alone. He had long ago polished off the bottle of champagne, something that was starting to affect his vision and coordination a bit.

"There you are," said Blaise, leading Gabrielle by the hand. When he came to Jean, he turned to Gabrielle, only to see her looking at Jean with a curious smile. "Gabrielle, this is Jean. Jean, this is – "

"Really?" exclaimed Gabrielle with delight, clapping her hands together. "You are Jean? I had no idea!"

Jean, who hadn't been sure how he was going to react when he saw her again, laughed. All the tension he'd felt during the ceremony melted away under her obvious excitement and Blaise's uncharacteristic confusion. "Yes," he admitted. "I didn't realize who you were, either."

"Oh, zis is so wonderful!" Gabrielle leaped at Jean and hugged him. "Blaise, Jean and I met in ze hallway earlier! I was nervous about ze wedding, and he made me feel so much better! Oh, I am so glad you are here!"

Blaise caught Jean's eyes over the top of Gabrielle's head, and Jean smiled broadly at Blaise's amusement. "I told you the girl was strange," said Blaise, before bringing three shot glasses over to them and setting them in the center of a table. He handed one to Jean and the other to Gabrielle before picking up the last one himself.

"To us," he said. "All of us."

"Cheers!" said the trio, and they clinked their glasses together.


	4. The Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A one-shot featuring Athena, Marseille, and Parvartus! Spoilers for The Sacred 28.

Author's Note: Everything about this one-shot makes me laugh. I hope you enjoy it, too.

* * *

The library at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was quiet.

Marseille Zabini, who rarely had two words to say to anyone other than the idiots he grew up with, enjoyed the silence very much. Unfortunately, his companions soon disrupted the peace - as usual.

"Here we are," said Athena, appearing next to Parvartus, who was currently wobbling under the load of books in his arms. "Oh!" said Athena. "I've just thought of one more – it's going to really help – can you take those to the table, Parvartus?"

"Su – Sure," said the Hufflepuff, flashing Athena a shaky smile as he struggled.

"Are you sure you've got it?" asked Athena, brows furrowed.

"Definitely," said Parvartus, his voice cracking.

Athena beamed and then turned to hurry down the aisle. As soon as she was out of sight, Parvartus stumbled over to their table and dumped the books on to it all at once, heaving as he did so. Marseille looked up.

"You're pathetic," he informed Parvartus. His friend made a face.

"Shut up," Parvartus muttered, face flushed. He gathered up the books and stacked them across from Marseille just as Athena re-appeared, taking her seat across from Marseille as she opened her newest book. Parvartus took a seat next to her.

"And now that I have these," said Athena, "I can give you back the book I borrowed from you, Parvartus." She handed it over to him with a smile. "Thanks for loaning it to me!"

"No problem," said Parvartus happily. Marseille leaned forward and furrowed his brows.

"You loaned her your Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook? Why?"

"She wanted to read it," said Parvartus. "She's already gone through the Second Year one."

"Now I just need to find a fourth year's," said Athena, looking around, as if she might spot someone at that very moment. "I want to read them ALL before next year."

"Nerd," muttered Marseille, looking back at his homework.

Athena wasn't listening; she was already reading a new book. Marseille looked over. "Didn't your Mum and Dad tell you not to read about necromancy anymore?"

Athena turned a page. "What they don't know won't hurt them. Besides, it's all purely theoretical."

"And," went on Parvartus, "Athena also agreed to not try and sneak into the Restricted Section anymore. Isn't that right, Athena?"

Marseille snorted at Athena's innocent smile, which Parvartus totally bought.

Athena returned to her reading, and a few minutes later, she shivered. Despite being twelve years old, she was still rather small, and she grew cold easily. Parvartus noticed, and he pulled off his own cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders.

"Thanks," said Athena, curling into the cloak with a pleased hum.

Marseille made a nasally noise of disgust, and Athena kicked him under the table. He kicked her back, and the two had a furious squabble before a brutish Slytherin prefect leaned over and shushed them. Marseille and Athena both returned to their respective seats with bruised shins.

"Pfft," said Athena. "Rosier is the worst. Good thing I told the Sorting Hat not to put me in Slytherin."

" _What_?" snapped Marseille, suddenly livid. "You mean you could have been in Slytherin with me, and you chose not to?"

"I wanted to be in Ravenclaw," said Athena hotly. "I like it better, and it's closer to the library! I didn't want to be in the bloody dungeons!" She moved one book aside and looked at another. "What do you care, anyway?"

"I don't," hissed Marseille. "I hate you."

Athena picked up a book to throw at him, but Parvartus pulled down her hand without even looking up from his homework. Athena huffed and let the book drop.

"I just – " said Marseille, before scowling. "It would be easier if I wasn't on my own."

"Why?" asked Parvartus, looking concerned. "Is it that Evans boy again? The fourth year?"

Marseille made a face at his homework. "Yes," he muttered. And then he said quietly, "He called my mother a whore."

Parvartus and Athena gasped. "Did you _murder_ him?" asked Athena, eyes blazing.

"No," said Marseille with a sigh. "There was a teacher there." He paused before going on glumly, "Plus I don't know any murder spells."

Parvartus grimaced before adding, "Not to mention the fact that murder is _illegal_." He eyed them both. "Concerns me a bit that I always have to remind you two of that."

Athena waved her hand dismissively. "Parvartus, did you not hear what Marseille said? We can't let that stand! We have to make Evans pay!"

"I know that you stupid ginger, shut up!" snapped Marseille, and this time Athena did manage to throw a pot of ink at him, which he dodged. It hit someone else instead, and the trio fell silent as the fifth-year Gryffindor looked around, bewildered.

Finally, Marseille leaned forward and asked in a hushed voice, "So? What are we going to do?" He clenched his hands. "Evans needs to learn a lesson, and painfully. My vote is for cutting off the tips of all his fingers."

Athena tapped her chin. "That would definitely make an impression."

Parvartus sighed. "Look, you can't just go and attack Evans. He'll only go to the teachers and tell them what you did. You'll get in trouble."

"Parvartus is right," said Athena. "Physical damage is temporary, and it can be traced back to us. What we need is something that really sticks – like psychological trauma."

"That," said Parvartus warily, "is not at all what I said."

"Psychological trauma," mused Marseille. "I like it. What's your idea?"

Athena fell silent as she thought, her eyes scanning the various books piled on their table. At last, her eyes fell on the text she'd borrowed from Parvartus, and her eyes lit up with devious delight. She leaned forward to her two friends. 

" _I've got it_." 

* * *

That same evening, fourth-year Slytherin Malachi Evans awoke to find himself not at all where he'd gone to sleep. In fact, he wasn't even in the same room. Instead of being in his dormitory, he was in an old, unused classroom.

And he was chained to a wall.

Jerking against the restraints, Evans let out a curse. "What in the hell – "

"Well, well," came a voice, and Evans looked up to see two figures sitting on a high wooden swing close to the ceiling. "Look who's awake."

The older boy squinted. "Zabini?" he called out incredulously, before looking to the other figure. "And Malfoy? What the – Let me out of here!"

Athena tilted her head at Evans below them, kicking her feet where she sat on the swing. "Look, Marseille," she said, pointing. "He's not even scared yet!"

"That will change," said Marseille, smirking.

Evans glared at them. "I swear to Merlin, you two weirdos better let me out! Now!"

"Or what?" growled Marseille, leaning over his knees.

"I'll – "

Across the classroom, something rattled in a wardrobe. Evans stopped, his eyes narrowed. "What's in there?" The wardrobe shook again.

Marseille's lips curled in a smirk. "No idea." He turned to his companion. "Athena, do you think we should see?"

"Certainly," said Athena, pulling out her wand. She cast a quick charm at the wardrobe, and the door unlocked, swinging open slowly. A long creak echoed through the room. Evans looked at the dark armoire with increasing anxiety.

That was when a set of razor-sharp claws appeared on the end of a massive paw, stepping out of the wardrobe. A low growl sounded through the room, and out of the darkness came a large feral creature with a human-like head, the body of a lion, and a great large stinger on its tail.

"Whoa!" said Marseille, yanking up his feet.

Evans's jaw dropped. "YOU LET A BLOODY MANTICORE IN HERE?" he screamed, throwing himself against the wall so that his chains rattled. "ARE YOU MAD?"

"Me?" said Marseille. "No. Her? Maybe."

Athena shrugged.

"Oh, please, please," babbled Evans, even as the lethal manticore advanced on him, jaws dripping with saliva. "Get it out of here – "

"I don't think so, Evans," said Marseille, his words low and dark, "Not until you've learned your lesson."

"Oh, Merlin, please – "

"Now all you have to do to survive this encounter," went on Marseille, eyes narrowed, "is apologize for insulting my family."

The manticore walked a slow circle, eyes never leaving Evans as the older boy began to cry hysterically.

"Apologize!" ordered Marseille.

"I'm sorry!" cried out Evans as the manticore edged closer, snout lifting. "I'm sorry, please – "

"Now," said Marseille. "Say you'll never speak a word about my family again."

"LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

"SAY IT!" yelled Marseille. The manticore lunged at Evans, and the boy screamed shrilly, barely dodging the animal's claws.

"I won't – I swear – I won't – " Evans sobbed. "I'll never – insult you again! Please!"

"And," went on Marseille heatedly, "you must swear that if anyone else ever speaks ill of my family, you will correct them swiftly. Won't you?"

"YE- YES! PLEASE!"

"SAY IT!"

"I WILL NEVER LET ANYONE SPEAK BADLY OF YOUR FAMILY! NOT EVER AGAIN!" Evans sank to his knees just as the manticore rounded on him and rushed forward again. "HELP ME!" screamed Evans.

Marseille sat back in his spot, satisfied. "Well, I suppose that will do." He looked over into a corner. "Now, Parvartus."

Parvartus jumped out with his wand. " _Riddikulus_!"

The lunging manticore stopped in mid-air, dropped to the floor, and turned instantly into a fluffy Pomeranian puppy. Yelping, the puppy bounced in circles before it ran back into the wardrobe with a squeal and disappeared, the door shutting behind it. Parvartus lowered his wand and smirked.

Evans trembled violently and sagged against his restraints. "A – a boggart – " he panted in disbelief. His robes were soiled.

Athena and Marseille lowered themselves to the floor, and Marseille marched forward, getting face-to-face with Evans. Despite their age differences, Marseille was the taller of the two, and his gaze was twice as fearsome.

"Let this be a lesson to you, Evans," Marseille told him lowly. "Because the next time you insult me, a bloody boggart will be the least of your concerns." With that, Marseille turned and walked away to the door.

Athena popped up next and took a photo of Evans chained to the wall. "For posterity," she explained sweetly.

Parvartus came up after her. "Here's your wand," he told Evans, dropping it just out of reach before he walked off with his two best friends.

Together, the trio left the room.

"Wait – " came Evan's voice. "You can't just leave me in here! Wait – COME BACK!"

The door shut, and Marseille locked it. After that, the three friends linked arms and walked off, laughing.


	5. Family Business

Author's Note: I'm working on other writing things, but I decided to put this one-shot together because it amuses me. If you need a good laugh, I think you'll like this one about the Zabini family.

Enjoy!

* * *

"Ah-ha!"

Jean Zabini removed the tip of the quill from his mouth and circled the word he'd been looking for. Feeling accomplished, he paused to take a sip of his coffee. Across the room, a gangly fifteen-year-old boy entered, light blue eyes looking around the room in a distracted fashion before they landed on Jean.

"Hi Papa," said Marseille, coming to stand in front of him.

Jean looked up. "Hey there," he said, setting his coffee cup aside. "What're you up to?"

"Nothing," said Marseille, before asking in an unconvincingly casual voice, "where are Mother and Father?"

"In the master bathroom," Jean informed him. "Arguing about floor tiles."

Marseille's lips quirked. "Which is why you're hiding in here, doing crossword puzzles."

"Exactly." Jean smirked.

Marseille hesitated, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, which piqued Jean's interest. "Actually, I had a question," said Marseille. "And you're probably the best person to ask anyway. Do you have a moment?"

"Of course, son." Jean set the crossword book aside and took off his reading glasses, before he settled back in his chair and waited patiently for Marseille to speak. Marseille took a seat on the chair next to Jean's and paused again. The elder of the two was now wildly curious. Marseille was rarely so uncertain, and he even looked a bit nervous.

"Well," said Marseille, not looking directly at Jean, "Dev and I have been dating for a while now, and I just… wanted to ask – how do you – you know, decide who's… in charge?"

Jean raised a brow. "In charge?" he repeated.

"Yeah," said Marseille, sitting up a bit straighter. "I mean, there's got to be someone who's in charge, right?"

Jean tilted his head, perplexed. "Well, no, actually," he said frankly. "If you have a healthy relationship, there is no one 'in charge.' You make decisions together, by talking through them."

"Yes, yes," said Marseille, rolling his eyes. "But someone still has to be in control, right? I mean, they have to – you know, be – " he paused, looking frustrated, " –  _in charge_ ," he finished meaningfully. Jean's brows furrowed, and the teenager huffed.

"Like, you know – " said Marseille, waving a hand, "here at home, it's like – you're the oldest, and Mother is – well, the most vocal, I guess, but Father is still the one in charge. So how do you decide that?"

Jean bit his lip to keep from laughing, deeply amused. "Ah, Marseille," he said, shifting forward as he put his chin in his hand. "First of all, your Father only thinks he's in charge because your mother and I  _let_  him think that. And second of all, what are you really asking? Because it seems like you're beating around the bush about something."

Marseille scowled. "I – I just want to know – "

Suddenly, it hit Jean. "Ooohh," he said, chuckling. "Do you mean who's on top and who's on bottom?"

Marseille's dark skin turned redder than Jean had ever seen it, and his mortified expression dropped to his lap with such fervor that Jean immediately felt bad for laughing. Quickly, he cleared his throat and forced his amusement back. "No, no – that's - a perfectly normal question."

"It is?" asked Marseille in a horrified murmur.

"Yes," said Jean, more in control of himself now. "Very much so. But you know, you could have just said that."

Marseille sighed heavily, looking like the most aggrieved teenager alive.

"And anyway," went on Jean, "the truth is, my answer is pretty much the same. That sort of thing is something you talk to your partner about."

"But I don't want to talk to him about it," Marseille protested. "It's embarrassing."

"Son, if you are too embarrassed to talk to your partner about sex, you shouldn't be having it," said Jean plainly, and Marseille made a face, looking down at his lap again as he toyed with the edges of his robes.

"It's just – " Marseille bit his lip. "I don't want to look like I don't know what I'm doing."

"You're a fifteen-year-old virgin," Jean reminded him. "You  _don't_  know what you're doing." He leaned forward at Marseille's put-out expression. "And that is perfectly alright, because everyone – everyone on this earth – started out just as uncertain and unsure as you are right now. And knowing what I know about Dev, I sincerely doubt he would hold it against you. In fact, I'm sure he's just as worried as you are. Which is exactly why you should talk to him. If you feel like now is the time for you two to start thinking about taking this kind of step, you need to make sure you're on the same page."

Marseille thought about this. "Okay, but – what if when we talk about it, we both want to do the same thing?"

Jean shrugged. "That happens sometimes. Relationships are all about compromise, though. You and Dev will just have to figure out what you are and are not willing to try. And besides, it's not a binding contract. You can try one thing one way and then, if that doesn't work, try it another way. The important thing is that you're both on board with what you are doing." Jean lightly tapped Marseille's head so the boy looked up at his serious expression. "Marseille, it is very important that you do this. If you or Dev end up doing something that you're not comfortable with, you may end up hurting each other – emotionally or physically. And you don't want that, do you?"

"No," agreed Marseille in a mutter.

"And you don't want to pressure him, or let him pressure you, right?"

"Right," said Marseille dully, not looking excited at these prospects.

Jean smiled softly, hoping to cheer him. "Don't look like that. It's not all doom. And it doesn't have to be so serious… I mean, it's  _important_. But this is about an expression of intimacy and love. It shouldn't scare you, which is exactly why you should make sure both of you are prepared, so you don't do something you regret. It should be a good thing."

Marseille's expression lightened some, and he nodded. Jean let him think for a minute or so, and then Marseille tilted his head. "Okay, but it makes more sense for Dev to – you know… be the – " he paused, before going on with a flush, "the bottom, right?"

Jean raised a brow again. "Why do you say that?"

"Because he's – he's  _Dev_ ," said Marseille emphatically, as if Jean should know what he meant. "He goes cloud-watching. He reads poetry. And a few days ago he cried because he finished a book with a sad ending. He's like a pygmy puff trapped in a sixteen-year-old boy's body."

Jean put his chin in his hand again. "What on earth does any of that have to do with sex, Marseille?"

"It just does!" Marseille said, flailing. "He's clearly the – "

Marseille paused here, watching Jean's expression carefully as the elder wizard held him in something close to a glare. "The what, Marseille?" asked Jean softly.

Marseille, who did not often fall under the glare of his papa, squirmed and shrugged. Then, because he knew he was caught, he muttered, "… the girl."

Jean took in a deep, all-suffering breath before he straightened in his chair and said quite patiently, "Marseille, let me be very clear with you. You, like many before you, have gotten it in your head that the top is the person who is the most masculine, the most dominant, and the most 'in charge.' But that is absolutely not the case." Jean met Marseille's gaze squarely. "Sex with your partner is about what you both enjoy and find pleasurable,  _not_  about a checklist of physical aspects or personality traits that lock you in to some sort of sexual obligation." He pointed at Marseille. "And being on the bottom does not mean you – or anyone else who does it – is subservient or weak or submissive." He dropped his hand. "And it doesn't make them feminine, either, though you should certainly know such at thing isn't an insult. We've raised you better than that."

Marseille's eyes lowered, and he nodded some.

Seeing the younger wizard had gotten the message, Jean softened his voice and squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Look, all you have to do… is talk to Dev. See what he thinks. Ask him what he believes he would like, and tell him the truth about what you want. And don't you dare think a fig about what anyone else's opinion on the matter is, because what you do with your boyfriend is none of their business – just like what they do in their own relationships is none of your business." He dropped his hand. "So if you're worried about what people might think of you for being a 'bottom', then don't. Because it isn't their concern. It's all about what you and Dev decide is most enjoyable for you. Got it?"

Marseille nodded again, lifting his head and exhaling. Still, he looked troubled. "I just…" he sighed, using his shoulder to brush at his flaming cheeks as if that could dispel the redness there. "I don't know what I want. And I can't help but feel like – if he wants to be the top, I don't know what I would do, because I feel like I would lose some sort of – I don't know… self-respect or something." He twisted his lips. "I know what you just said, but I can't help it. I still think that – because of the way Dev is…"

Jean studied Marseille for a long moment. At last, he leaned forward. "Marseille, I'm going to tell you something you have no business knowing, but I feel like you're never going to believe me unless I do, so here goes." Jean took a deep breath. "When your Father and I have sex – "

Marseille blanched.

" – I'm on top," went on Jean. "And he's on bottom."

Marseille's jaw dropped. The boy looked so stricken Jean thought he might actually faint. At last, Marseille whispered in a shocked voice, "You're lying."

"Why would I lie?" asked Jean incredulously, unable to hold back a laugh at Marseille's expression.

"But – but – " Marseille waved an arm. "That can't be true!"

"Why not?" asked Jean calmly.

"Because he's – he's Father! And you're Papa – and – and – "

Marseille fell back in his chair, horrified into a stupor. Jean rolled his eyes grandly. "You see what I mean, Marseille? You think just because your father is 'in charge', that means he's a top. But that's not true. And it doesn't make him any lesser for it. Nor does it make me any greater."

Marseille finally shut his mouth, but his stricken expression remained for several seconds. He jumped when Jean placed a hand on his shoulder again, and finally, he relaxed some. "Just talk to Dev," Jean told him with a gentle smile. "See what he says. And don't assume anything, do you understand? That's the surest way to misunderstand someone, and it will never do you any favors or save you any time."

"Yes, Papa," said Marseille, standing slowly. "Thank you." He turned to walk away. Jean watched him go. At the door, Marseille turned and looked back at him, still in disbelief, and then he muttered to himself and left. Jean bit his knuckles to keep from laughing again, and then he finally let out a chuckle as he stood and left the sitting room.

He laughed all the way to the master bedroom, diverting his path when he heard a conversation float in from the bathroom. When he entered, he found Blaise and Gabrielle Zabini soaking together in their very large porcelain tub. They were no longer arguing about floor tiles, but instead about nail polish.

"What on earth is this color?" asked Blaise, dipping the brush into the jar. "Whore Red?"

"It's called Scarlet Hex," Gabrielle informed him with an eyeroll. "Just do it, please. Little toe first."

Blaise made a face and began to apply the nail polish to one delicate toe, where Gabrielle had her foot propped up on his knee, just above a line of lavender-scented bubbles. When Jean entered, they both looked up.

"Well, there you are!" said Blaise, making a face. "I thought you were coming in here ten minutes ago."

Jean immediately began to strip down. "Sorry, I got caught up." He quickly climbed into the tub. "You two are  _not_  going to believe the conversation I just had with Marseille."

"Oh, Merlin. What has he done this time?" asked Blaise, blowing on one of Gabrielle's toes to dry it.

Jean picked up a sponge. "He came to talk to me about sex," he told them with glee.

Gabrielle gasped. "He's having sex?" she cried out, before groaning and throwing an arm over her face. "No-o-o-o! Not my baby!"

"Not yet," appeased Jean. "But soon."

"Be glad, Gabby," said Blaise wryly. "I'm surprised he's lasted this long."

"That's true," said Jean. "I wasn't a virgin at fifteen."

"Me either," said Blaise. Gabrielle opened her mouth, but Blaise cut her off. "And don't even try to say you were, Gabby, because the amount of blowjobs you gave at Beauxbatons adds up to the loss of your virginity, so don't even try it."

Gabrielle shut her mouth and made a face, folding her arms over her bare chest before she stuck her tongue out at him. "So what did he ask you?" she asked Jean instead.

"That's the craziest part," said Jean. "He wanted to know how you determine who's on top and who's on bottom."

Blaise laughed, pausing his nail-painting as he did so. "What an idiot."

"You see, that's exactly why he didn't ask you," pointed out Jean.

"Why didn't he ask me?" pouted Gabrielle.

"Teenage boys don't talk to their mothers about sex, Gabby," Jean pointed out gently.

"Especially not about gay sex," added Blaise with an eyeroll.

"I zink I know more about gay sex more zan most mothers!"

"That's true," conceded Jean.

"So what did you tell him?" asked Blaise, amused.

Jean reclined against the tub. "Well, I told him he needed to talk to his partner about it."

"Oh, right," said Blaise, amused. "Because you and I had so many lengthy conversations before we went to bed together."

Jean smirked and shrugged. "Well, ninety percent of parenting is 'do as I say, not as I do.'"

"Zat's true," said Gabby.

"You know," said Blaise, carefully adding a second-layer of red polish to Gabrielle's middle toe, "I can't help being a little disappointed Marseille is gay."

"Why?" asked Jean curiously.

"Because," said Blaise, waving the brush, "he's our only boy, of course! How the hell are we going to get a continued Zabini bloodline if he's gay?"

"Oh, Blaise." Gabrielle rolled her eyes. "Who cares?"

"I bloody do!"

"Well, maybe he'll get lucky like we did," said Jean with a smile, lifting Gabrielle's hand and kissing her knuckles.

"Aww," said Gabrielle, but Blaise scoffed.

"Unlikely," said Blaise. "The only female he interacts with is Athena, and Merlin forbid he reproduce with her. That girl is a bloody psychopath." He capped the nail polish. "We need Zabini heirs, damn it."

"Then perhaps now is a bad time to tell you that I think Leilette is gay, too," pointed out Jean, smirking.

" _What_?" exclaimed Blaise, dropping his arms into the water.

"It's true," said Gabrielle, nodding. "Yesterday, we were in Diagon Alley, and she saw zis cute little girl from her year, and when ze girl waved at her, 'Lette said somezing like –  _bllegghh_ , and zen she tripped over her own feet. It was ze cutest zing ever."

Blaise flailed. "Two out of four? Really?" he asked incredulously. " _Who keeps making our children gay?"_

"Well, between Leilette and Marseille, I think the common denominator is Gabby," Jean said with a laugh. Gabrielle flapped her arms.

"Argh! I get blamed for everyzing!"

"Oh, please," said Blaise. "You get whatever you want and you know it."

Gabrielle folded her arms. "I didn't get zat chateau in Paris."

"We already have two chateaus in France, Gabby! We don't need another."

"Seriously, Gabby," agreed Jean. "Do you want us to buy you the Eiffel Tower while we're at it?"

"Why?" said Gabrielle coyly. "Is it for sale?"

"We're getting off topic," cut in Blaise. "Look, the fact is, if Marseille is going to be gay, we're going to need to take drastic measures to ensure a continued Zabini bloodline." He paused, before his hazel eyes slid over to their wife, who was inspecting her fingernails. "Gabrielle…" he murmured, sliding over to her.

Gabrielle's blue eyes flickered up to him, and she gave him a haughty look. "Yes, husband?"

Blaise waved a hand. "What would you say to having another baby, hmm?"

"Ooh, no," said Gabrielle, holding up a manicured hand. "I am done having babies, Blaise. What if my body does not recover zis time? Isabella left me wiz  _two_  stretch-marks. I am not as young as I was!"

"You're only thirty-two!" protested Blaise.

"And your body is beautiful," pointed out Jean sweetly, and Gabrielle smiled at him before shifting to give Blaise a narrow look.

"Don't you want another precious little infant?" tried Blaise. "Just think of all the – " he paused, screwing up his face as he thought, " – joyous… and – wonderful … parenting – experiences."

Jean burst out laughing. "You couldn't even say that with a straight face!"

"Shut up."

"No, Blaise!"

"Oh come on," said Blaise, not ready to give up. "You always said you wanted a big family!"

Gabrielle waved an arm. "And I have given you two idiots four beautiful, healthy children!"

Blaise paused. "Well, yes, but you only had to be pregnant three times, so technically, you still owe us one."

Jean collapsed into laughter at Gabrielle's glare.

"Blaise, if you do not get your penis away from me right now, I am going to hex it off."

Blaise's eyes widened minutely, and he slid to the other side of the tub again, next to Jean. "Obviously, this is going to require a re-evaluation of strategy."

"Obviously," agreed Jean with a grin. "So what is your new plan?"

Blaise stroked his chin, eyes on Gabrielle. "I'm going to  _seduce_  her."

Gabrielle, clearly within earshot, rolled her eyes grandly.

Blaise held up a hand, talking with Jean. "It's all about knowing your target. Watch." He slid back over to Gabrielle, who observed him with a bemused expression. Blaise slipped an arm around her shoulders, trailing his fingers over her skin before he leaned over and murmured to her.

"So about that chateau in Paris…"

Gabrielle's face lit up. "Ahh, now you are speaking my language, Mister Zabini!" She tapped her chin. "But what if I got pregnant again, and it was anozer girl?"

Blaise paused. "Surely fate would not be so cruel."

Jean laughed. "Ah, it's not fate, Blaise. It's genetics. And yes, yes it would."

"Well, we'll deal with that when we come to it," said Blaise. "All we need to do is get you pregnant with a boy. Preferably a sexually-active heterosexual. And then we won't have to worry anymore." He tilted his head at her. "What do you say?"

Gabrielle hummed as she thought, and then she looked at Jean. "Do you want anozer baby?" she asked curiously. Jean thought about it and shrugged.

"I wouldn't be opposed to one. But it's your choice, Gabby. I wouldn't vote against you on something like that."

Blaise made a face at him.

"Wellll," said Gabrielle, before she shifted to face Blaise with a grin. "I'll tell you what, Blaise. I will give you until… sunrise tomorrow, to try and get me pregnant. If you can do it before zen, wonderful. If not, your window has closed. How about zat?"

"Hmm," said Blaise, looking thrilled at the challenge. He leaned back and looked at the clock. "That gives us about eleven hours… What do you say, Jean? Should we give it a try?"

"Always worth a shot," said Jean, laughing.

"Very well then," said Blaise, shifting to face Gabrielle with a smirk. "Are we agreed?"

"Agreed," said Gabrielle, giggling.

"No time to waste then," said Blaise, before he jumped over to Gabrielle and scooped her up out of the bath, making her shriek and giggle as he and Jean both swept her away from the bathroom and to their large bed, where they made love well into the night – and then again, and again, and again – sometimes even forgetting about the "agreement" altogether.


	6. Tidbits

Author's Note: I was bored at work, so here is a long list of random facts about The Sacred 28/House of Black universe that will never make it into a story, but are still canon… or at least, as canon as fanfiction gets. Here goes!

[Spoilers for  _The Sacred 28_ ,  _The House of Black_ , and  _Bottled Magic_ , obviously]

1\. Narcissa's school, Florence Institute of Higher Learning for Witches, eventually gained such credibility that many magical professions began accepting diplomas in lieu of Ministry-sanctioned training.

2\. Parvartus Nott, Lavender's son, is by far the friendliest and most social of the trio. However, he does not get along with Charles Prince, Edwin's younger brother. In fact, the only time Parvartus got into serious trouble at Hogwarts was when he fought Charles in a courtyard and beat the hell out of him. To this day, no one knows what the argument was about. When Theo later scolded him about it, he was disturbed to find Parvartus completely unrepentant. Theo later told Lavender it was the only time Parvartus had ever reminded him of their father.

3\. Maggie and Edwin married and had two children, Alice and William. Alice was born deaf, and although she was clearly magical, her parents worried she wouldn't be accepted into Hogwarts because she used sign language and did not speak aloud, thus impeding her ability to do spellwork. However, Alice was accepted to Hogwarts with no issue and sorted into Hufflepuff. Early in her first year, a hearing classmate who knew Sign figured out how to explain the nuances of spell pronunciation to her, and Alice was able to master non-verbal spells. She eventually graduated at the top of her class.

4\. Theo's wife Astoria died when Parvartus was twelve years old, and his own boys were nine and four. It left Theo very depressed, but Lavender helped him through it. He never remarried, and neither did Lavender, although she dated some.

5\. On the day Gabrielle and Blaise revealed to Jean that she was pregnant with the twins, Jean broke down sobbing because he had lost a patient that day at work, and he felt guilty for receiving such happy news.

6\. Atticus Malfoy, Ginny and Draco's son, was by far the most arrogant and callous of their children. Although promising as a young boy, he was borderline cruel by the time he entered Hogwarts, maintaining a selfish and conceited attitude for many years. A radical series of events in his twenties finally caused him to change his ways.

7\. Atticus' behavior was so terrible, in fact, that when Draco received news that Atticus had  _two_  illegitimate children he'd been intentionally neglecting, he broke his son's wand in half.

8\. Athena's cure for lycanthropy gained international attention, and the Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook used by Hogwarts was re-written to include a foreword by her when she was only sixteen years old. It also helped gain major notoriety for Florence Institute, even though Athena created the cure before she ever attended.

9\. Edwin was raised in Hexham, and his parents are from Yorkshire. Therefore, he has a very different English accent than Maggie or her parents, and Mayra once admitted she could only understand every third or fourth word he said.

10\. Gabrielle keeps a list of responses for when people ask her why she has two husbands. Her favorites are: "Z'ere was a two-for-one special," "I require twice ze usual amount of love and attention," and, when Blaise and Jean made her angry: "Because ze two of zem together do not add up to one decent husband!"

11\. Jean's birth parents were Korean-French Muggles. His adopted mother (a witch) is also Korean-French, but his adopted wizard father is Caucasian and a native of Australia, which is how Jean learned English (and why his accent differs from Gabrielle's). Blaise incorrectly assumed Jean was biracial until he learned the truth of his adoption.

12\. Jean was seven years old at the time of his adoption, just like Maggie, and he remembers his birth parents fondly.

13\. Once Edwin was cured of his lycanthropy, he enlisted in Maggie's help to start exercising now that he had the energy. The first time he beat her in a foot race, he collapsed to the ground and screamed at the top of his lungs with joy.

14\. Edwin also took Maggie back to the Hogwarts courtyard where they first kissed to propose to her. Maggie accepted, of course.

15\. Marseille, for all his apparent indifference, is very defensive about his family and will not allow anyone to ridicule or mock his parents. He is also rather protective of both Athena and Parvartus.

16\. Marseille and Dev broke up and got back together countless times during their relationship. Their biggest point of contention was Marseille's friendships with Parvartus and Athena, which Dev found to be "too dependent."

17\. When Narcissa finally retired as Headmistress of Florence Institute at the age of ninety-eight, Athena took over as Headmistress.

18\. Iain's daughters, Rose and Faris, both attended Florence Institute as well. Rose studied healing, and Faris surprised everyone by studying – and excelling at – magical law. She later cited Maggie's showing of the Muggle movie  _Legally Blonde_  as her inspiration.

19\. Ali, Iain's son, is very, very good at Apparition. While going through his "troubled" phase a few years after his mother's death, he often used his quick, effortless, and accurate apparition skills to win duels.

20\. Lindsay, Ali's girlfriend (and later wife), became the first-ever Squib accepted into a magical institution when she was invited to attend Florence Institute of Higher Learning for Witches. When Narcissa surprised her with the admission letter, Lindsay turned to her parents and exclaimed tearfully, " _I'm going to school!"_

21\. Blanca's wife Anna eventually convinced her to have another child. When Draco heard the news, he burst out laughing and said to Blanca, "Quit pulling out, did you?" Blanca hit him in response.

22\. Charles, Edwin's middle brother, was sorted into Slytherin. Henry, the youngest, was sorted into Gryffindor.

23\. As soon as Edwin had enough gold saved – a mere four years after graduating Hogwarts – he bought his parents and brothers a new home. He was mostly able to do this because Draco and Ginny paid for his and Maggie's housing all throughout their schooling and training.

24\. Athena's constant experiments caused many near-catastrophes at Hogwarts, but only once – in her fifth year – did one nearly get her killed. This was the year that caused her to finally set limits for herself.

25\. Between Maggie, Athena, and Atticus, Draco and Ginny ended up with a total of nine grandchildren.

There you go! More questions? If they're not too spoilery for stories I  _may_  write, I'll be glad to answer them! Thanks for reading!


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